After all, our dear and blessed children, it’s your glorious day, and we’d be there in rags if necessary.
For you, we’d even wear miniskirts.
Language of Love
They spoke almost no English. Journeying from the biblical vistas of Mount Ararat, they flew thousands of miles across the cities of Europe, the blue-green swells of the Atlantic Ocean, and the drought-dried fields of America’s heartland before arriving in the hot concrete jungle of the distinctly different Dallas.
Hamlet and Karine (Kara) traveled all this way bearing gifts of cognac and handmade pillow covers from their native Armenia to celebrate their daughter’s wedding to my nephew.
It was my fifth wedding of the summer, which started with my own son’s celebration with his beautiful high school sweetheart and would conclude with our nephew’s long-awaited marriage to his Armenian bride. In between were the wonderful weddings of friends.
Each celebration reflected not only the unique love of the bride and groom but also the parents’ love for their children. For, although they are times of great happiness, weddings also represent a time of separation as our children journey forth with their beloved partners and create lives of their own.
They go, of course, with our blessings but not without a soft sigh from our hearts as we realize that our children are now grown and belong to someone else.
We parents try to be subtle about this letting go, but we are not so good at it.
I witnessed this in a myriad of undisguised moments during each summer wedding: the emotional struggle in a dad’s voice as he delivered a humorous and heartfelt toast at a rehearsal dinner; a mother’s sweet, prolonged adjustment of her son’s tuxedo tie as they waited for the ceremony to begin; and a father’s tender kisses on his daughter’s forehead as they lovingly danced at a reception.
Such small moments are wordless expressions of the deep, ever-flowing love a parent has for a child. And although we parents try to keep these powerful emotions under wraps, they bubble up at unexpected moments.
So my heart went out to Hamlet and Kara, who were not simply celebrating their only daughter’s wedding in a foreign land but also adjusting to their first trip to America. Besides not knowing the language, they had to handle the heavy heat of Dallas, the congested traffic, the Tex-Mex food, and the ongoing introductions to yet another set of family members who kept appearing on the scene. In addition, as the bride’s parents, they had an important role to play.
But none of that seemed to affect Hamlet’s or Kara’s demeanor. Kara’s lovely smile and sparkling eyes spoke volumes, and she knew a smattering of words like beautiful and good and thank you, which, when you think about it, cover a lot of territory.
Hamlet displayed a quiet dignity that overshadowed what must have been tremendous culture shock. Although he knew no English, he was not afraid to venture forth in his own language, translated by the bride’s two Armenian girlfriends. (After all, the bride, who speaks impeccable English, could hardly be expected to translate her father’s toast to herself.)
“Shhhh! Hamlet is going to speak!” someone would announce throughout the weekend celebrations. And then Hamlet would take center stage, gather his thoughts, and confidently deliver a toast in his musical native tongue.
“He says, ‘We parents are like gardeners, and these are our flowers,’ ” the young Armenian woman translated for the groom’s parents. “ ‘We have raised and nurtured our flowers separately, but now these beautiful flowers will bloom together.’ ”
Gathered guests nodded in perfect understanding.
“He wants to know if the vows included honoring one another in sickness and health, in good times and bad?” the young interpreter asked the bride and groom, who confirmed that this was so. Satisfied, Hamlet carried on.
“He wishes that you love each other always,” the interpreter continued. “ ‘May you share one pillow as you go through life and grow old together. When you have difficulties, and you will, for life is hard, your love can overcome these obstacles. Your love will see you through.’ ”
Although we did not know much of Hamlet’s personal background, it was clear he knew of what he spoke.
Earlier in the day, with the morning shadows still cooling the wedding venue’s backyard garden, Hamlet stood poised in his American tuxedo with his radiant daughter on his arm. To the sounds of a lush brass quintet, they started down the grassy aisle together.
This is always one of the most poignant moments of a wedding for me. Even if I don’t know the family well, emotion wells up within me, like water ready to burst a dam. It takes all my strength to keep from breaking into sobs.
I can only attribute these emotions to the memory of my father and the deep love I felt as we began our walk down the aisle at my wedding decades ago. I was only twenty, and at the end of the aisle waiting for me was a man my father loved and respected and I adored (still do).
Perhaps it is because my father died a mere six years later that this moment, a time to leave and a time to join together, holds such a cherished place in my heart.
And so I felt a special empathy for this Armenian father as he listened and watched an entire ceremony spoken in words that held no meaning for him. What could be going through his head as his daughter not only left his family to join another’s but also adopted a new culture and country?
As the bride and groom concluded their vows with a kiss and began their walk back down the garden path to the music of the quintet and to a new life of their own, Hamlet suddenly shouted out in his native Armenian to his once-little girl.
“Be happy!” he said in a loud, clear voice. “Happiness to you always!”
The universal language of a parent’s heart.
No interpretation needed.
Hamlet and his daughter, Anna, were never to see each other again. Tragically, two years later, Hamlet Charchoghlyan was killed in a head-on car crash with a truck on the curve of an Armenian mountain road. May he rest in peace.
Making of a Mother-in-Law
The mother-in-law muse is very powerful. Like the muse of poetry, who provides writers with verbal inspiration, this muse provides mothers-in-law with opinions, and lots of them.
“Do it my way” might be a mother-in-law’s musical mantra in a revised version of the old Frank Sinatra standard, especially when she feels compelled to pass her muse-inspired advice on to an unsuspecting daughter-in-law.
As a novice mother-in-law of two years with another daughter-in-law soon to join the ranks, I’ve come to the conclusion that “the muse made me say it” is the only logical explanation for my need to share my worldly wisdom with these young women.
One only needs to read daily advice columns to see the mother-in-law cast as a constant culprit, stirring up marital trouble between her daughter-in-law and her son. No wonder the old adage to the mother of the groom is, “Wear beige and shut up.”
Unfortunately, I look like a bowl of cold oatmeal in beige, and shutting up is not one of my strengths.
If not the muse, what is it that makes a mother-in-law want to voice her opinions so frequently? I can only use the excuse my three boys gave while burping like a bevy of bullfrogs at the dinner table when they were young.
“We can’t help it!” they’d giggle together after I admonished them.
A chorus of more and louder burps would follow just to prove their point.
As an excuse, however, this doesn’t hold much air (forgive the pun). So, in an attempt to avoid being the lead story in an advice column, I often ponder the pitfalls that pepper so many mother-in-law/daughter-in-law relationships.
Thankfully, I need go no further than my husband’s wonderful eighty-seven-year-old mother, who presents a prime example of what a mother-in-law should be. In all my years of marriage, she has never criticized me or offered advice unless I asked for her opinion. Over the years, there have been no suggestions on how to raise my children, cook for my husband, keep house, or alter a career. And those are jus
t the big issues.
No matter how important or insignificant the circumstances, she has refrained from verbally judging me. And that is no small accomplishment. Although I have always appreciated her efforts, not until I became a mother-in-law myself did I realize that such a stance doesn’t necessarily come naturally or without a lot of work.
So at a recent family outing, I told my mother-in-law how grateful I was not only for her approach but also for setting an example for me. Without hesitation, my sister-in-law seconded my thoughts, and I’m sure if our third sister-in-law had been there, she would have agreed in the blink of an eye as well.
Although the three of us are as different as can be, our mother-in-law has always treated us equally, which attests to her gifts of noninterference and tolerance.
“It couldn’t have been easy, though,” I said.
“No,” she answered honestly and with a smile. “It wasn’t.”
(My sister-in-law and I looked at each other in horror. What? We weren’t perfect?)
“I’m finding that keeping my mouth shut is no easy task,” I confided, as my mother-in-law nodded in agreement. “So, the fact that you have been able to do so all these years shows amazing fortitude.”
Raising our glasses, we all (her two sons included) toasted my mother-in-law for this achievement.
Yet, as I tread down my own mother-in-law road, I’m discovering that even with the best intentions in mind, it is easy to end up putting one’s foot in one’s mouth, or in my case, foot in one’s pants.
Not long ago, my daughter-in-law called to say she had stopped by the dry cleaners to pick up some pants, but the cleaners had inadvertently sent them home with my husband’s shirts. Had I seen them?
“Are they black Capri style?’ I asked.
“Yes.”
“Little slits on the side?”
“Yes.”
“Side zip?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I have good news,” I said, bursting out laughing. “Not only have I seen them, I’m wearing them! In fact, I’ve been wearing them all week!”
“Oh no!” she said. And because she is a wise and wonderful daughter-in-law, she laughed too.
“They’re really nice pants,” I tried to explain. “I’d wondered why I hadn’t worn them for a while. I guess it’s because they’re yours!”
I quickly apologized and offered to have them dry-cleaned again. Later in the week, I hung them on her back door with a note that read, “I promise never to wear your pants again.” We both had a good laugh over it, but when I told my second son, who was soon to be married, he looked at me warily and didn’t laugh so hard.
“That’s pretty bad, Mom,” he said. “Couldn’t you tell they weren’t yours?”
“Well, no,” I said, sheepishly. “I just thought I’d forgotten about them.”
I think he later advised his bride-to-be to hide her clothes and not use his mother’s cleaners once they were married.
As the mother of three sons, my mother-in-law likes to say she got her daughters all grown up. As another mother of three sons, I will do the same. And what a wonderful gift. Strong, bright young women, who are taking flight like beautiful butterflies with hopes and dreams of their own.
No matter what the mother-in-law muse says, it is not my job to steer their courses, but rather to enjoy and learn from the paths they choose. And in the process, I hope I can be whatever they need: a mother, a woman, a friend.
My mother-in-law recently told her grandson, after his engagement celebration, “I know you would only choose the very best.” What a wonderful demonstration of acceptance to him, and for me, another example of superb mother-in-law mentoring.
Of course, being prejudiced, I think my new girls chose pretty well themselves, and as long as they don’t ask me to wear beige, I think I can keep my mouth shut. At least I’ll try.
Which means, girls, you’re on your own with the burping business.
Christmas Windows
The windows beckon. And as usual, we’re running late. Our early morning train leaves in twenty minutes, and the station is at least a ten-minute drive away, plus parking.
The panic begins to set in. Where are my shoes? Do you have a hat? Don’t forget a scarf!
Our race to the train station gets our hearts pumping, not to mention the sweat. With minutes to spare, we climb the stairs to the train’s upper deck, breathing big sighs of relief and scrambling for seats that give us a good view of the river and passing countryside. A couple “choo choos” (usually from me) and we’re on our way.
For twenty-seven years, we’ve been making this train trek into Chicago to see the Marshall Field’s windows the day after Thanksgiving.
“Are you nuts?” our friends politely ask us. “Why would you go Christmas shopping there on the busiest day of the year?”
“Oh, we never shop,” I answer. “We just enjoy the windows and the ambiance.”
More incredulous stares.
How do I explain the desire to brave crowds, questionable weather, and long waits ? Part of the allure is the walk. Even when our three boys were babies, we hiked the long city blocks from Chicago’s train depot to Marshall Field’s, hauling strollers, diaper bags, and toddlers. The burst of cold air after the warmth of the train car invigorated us as we set off at a fast clip into the Windy City.
Zigzagging through the streets, we crossed Daley Plaza, admired the gigantic live Christmas tree, watched the miniature train run its course, and breathed in the pungent scent of sauerkraut from the German shops.
Then it was on to State Street with the first order of the day: viewing Field’s windows, which had a new theme every year. Starting at the far northwest corner of the store, we worked our way down the street and along the storyline, admiring the colorful details of each display. Before the boys could read, I recited the narratives to them, much to the chagrin or gratitude of those around me. (It is a habit I still can’t shake, even though my boys now hover around six feet tall.)
Moving gingerly through the crowd, we not only absorbed the window displays but also took in the wonder of the sights around us: the Salvation Army bell-ringers with their silver horns, the fanfare of giant golden trumpets protruding high above us into the sparkling white lights of the trees, the strains of street musicians’ sweet violins or sassy saxophones, and the burnished patina of Field’s green clock under which we were to meet if we ever became separated.
The best windows, in my humble opinion, were the ones that actually depicted Christmas. Scrooge and Tiny Tim top my list, with Dickens’s timeless message of the season. The display of Chicago Christmases over the decades, with its lovely family scenes, added an intriguing historical element. And the Nutcracker Suite always established a mood of magic and enchantment.
I can’t say Harry Potter, Cinderella, or Snow White stoked my Yuletide fires. Nevertheless, the Field’s windows always gave us a good opportunity for analysis and observation.
In the early years, with our window promenade complete, it was on to see the Field’s Santa. Swinging through the revolving doors into the engulfing warmth and sweetness of the perfume section, we made a beeline to the North Pole.
This involved no simple ride up the escalator. Our system included a series of ruses that would challenge any detective. Consequently we were usually the first ones in line to see Santa Claus.
I can still see our first visit to Santa with my eighteen-month-old son standing sweetly before him, dressed in his little red plaid pants and matching handmade sweater, and our last visit sixteen years later when Santa cheerily greeted this now-tall seventeen-year-old by reading the name scripted on his high school jacket.
“Why, hello, John!” he intoned in his deep, Santa voice. “My, how you have grown!”
We all had a good laugh, but knew it was time to check Santa off our to-do list for good. Just for fun and old time’s sake, we occasionally go by and wave.
Because of that early morning train, we would all
be starving after seeing Santa. In the early years, we endured the long wait to eat in the Walnut Room near the Christmas tree before we discovered a fast little cafeteria on the eighth floor that served the same food and offered a glimpse of Lake Michigan and the surrounding buildings. Much more manageable for three hungry boys and their parents.
With our mission accomplished, we usually headed home on the 12:40 p.m. train. But as the boys grew, we started to extend our stay, hiking up Michigan Avenue not only to check out the sights and the action but also to find good burgers and fries.
Over the years, our sojourn sometimes included a stop at the Art Institute to admire the wreathed lions and take in the nativity art before trekking the entire distance to the north end of the Magnificent Mile. Comfortable walking shoes were always a must.
Along the way, we enjoyed the variety of architecture, the diversity of the crowds, the beauty of the holiday window displays, the energy of the fur protesters and their horseback-riding police escorts, the aroma of Garrett’s caramel popcorn, the steamy breath of the buggy horses, and the sounds of traffic cop whistles.
We each had our favorite stopping places: novelty and electronic shops for their playful gadgets, Stuart Brent’s bookstore for its cozy ambiance, Niketown for its fun, Fourth Presbyterian church for its peace, and the Drake Hotel for its harp music. Sometimes we walked together and sometimes we separated, especially when the boys started bringing their girlfriends along. After meeting at Bloomingdale’s piano at a designated time, we’d start our long hike back to the train.
Weaving hurriedly through the back streets (running late as usual), we’d pass by the piney scent of a Christmas tree lot, the open doors of old neighborhood churches, and the funky decor of a honky-tonk bar.
We have walked in freezing cold, balmy sunshine, staggering wind, drifting snow, mist, rain, and fog. We’ve been hot, cold, wet, tired, and cranky. We’ve traded baby bottles for carryout coffee, and two lovely daughters-in-law have joined our journey.
On a Clear Night Page 8
